


All who dare the eagle's flight

by djarum99



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Biting, Disasters, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:06:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djarum99/pseuds/djarum99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen and Nikola reunite on the centennial of Titanic's sinking; one hundred years have left their mark, and a legacy of ghosts</p>
            </blockquote>





	All who dare the eagle's flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Its own appointed limits keep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/156816) by [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife). 



_April 18th, 2012, McCarren International Airport_

CNN ran the clip in its midday litany of disaster, as Helen made her way down the concourse through slot machine archipelagos, eddies of tourists, shoals of anxious conversation. A narrative chorus for the horror unfolding on silent plasma screens: sunlight flashing on the plane’s spiralling wings, the impact with heat shimmered tarmac, a muted roar of devastation as fire engulfed the shattered remains.

Three days before, at eight o’clock on a desert spring morning, Southwest Airlines flight 392 crashed on a Las Vegas runway. No one aboard had survived.

The plane burns again in an endless digital loop, like a phoenix denied rebirth. Helen has seen the real thing, the metaphor’s miraculous namesake, in Siberia’s Altai Mountains. June, 1903. Not avian - a feathered reptile, whose “resurrection” molt involved bioluminescence rather than combustion, but still...it had been quite spectacular.

She abandons the memory - 143 people are dead, and denial’s balm had lost its potency sometime after her thirtieth birthday, one hundred and thirty-one years ago and counting, not that Helen Magnus did. Not often. Immortality had a way of narrowing one’s focus to the moment, most days, and this accident is no cryptid puzzle; there’s nothing here for her to solve. Humanity’s hubris would not be diminished, today’s tragedy and the horrific lessons of history be damned. Helen believed that hubris shared a bed with blind optimism, mankind’s obsessive hopeful tinkering with what the universe hath wrought. Sometimes the result was a cure for the plague, and sometimes planes crashed, ships sank, and the good died young.

Concourse C is crowded, and she’s blocking the flow of Hawaiian shirts and sunburns, of people who know where they need to go. People averting their eyes from images of someone else’s tragedy, because it strikes far too close, because it could have been them. Helen starts walking, returns to the present, the choice at hand, makes a u-turn at “why” and slides back into the past...

_The Titanic in her death throes, twisted metal echoing human screams, pitiless stars reflected in water that flays her skin like ice forged knives...deep, miles deep, so easy to just let go, but she’d fought the sea and salvation arrived, helmed by a grim-faced Molly Brown. And then, in the form of Nikola Tesla, saving her from...something, some cold ruthless thing that had pursued her from the depths...Nikola, stepping into the chaos of Carpathia’s arrival, sweeping into her a brougham cab and then the Astoria’s lush serenity...warmth, the sting of his bite in her chilled flesh, the salvation of sharing a bed, a morning... she has known him for almost fourteen decades, and they’ve shared so many wondrous things. What’s a little blood between friends?_

_“You bring out all my worst impulses...”_

_"We shouldn't do that again, you know," she’d said, expecting the words to hurt, knowing the line must be drawn. Instead, Nikola had smiled, a triangular quirk that bared human teeth and kindled the light in his eyes._

_"We'll save it for the next time I save you from a sinking ship."_

_"You didn't precisely_ save me from a sinking ship _, Nikola. It's not as if you rowed out with a life preserver and a flask of brandy."_

_"Save you from reporters, then."_

_"That might be too frequent an occurrence to be marked with bloodletting."_

_"Hundredth anniversary?"_

Today.

She boards a shuttle for Concourse D, finds American Airline’s red and blue counter, and buys a one-way ticket to New York.

Manhattan’s former meatpacking district is awash in chic and its streets are awash in yellow, a slow moving stream of taxis under Wednesday’s late afternoon sun. Her own driver alternates lurching starts with bone-jarring stops and Helen has begun to feel slightly queasy by the time they reach the waterfront. Seasick. She’s been here since _Carpathia’s_ 1912 arrival, of course, for Hudson River Park concerts and galas and once to track down a chenoo wreaking havoc along the Greenway, but never back to Pier 54. Never back to find meaning in the lessons of the past; Helen knows better than most that solace lives only in tomorrow.

A rusting archway is the lone remnant of that age of great ships and quaint arrogance; the Chelsea Pier’s pink granite is long gone. When the driver begins beating a staccato tattoo on his dashboard’s worn vinyl, Helen gives the order to move on. Sunset has cast the city’s towers in amber, and Titanic’s ghosts are not in her keeping.

Midtown’s sidewalks glide past her window and Helen’s own ghost appears as if summoned, the one that will always find her. The confident stride, the joyous flag of white-gold hair, and Helen knows, she knows, before the girl turns, before she sees her laughing face, that this is not her daughter. With each apparition, she knows it can’t be Ashley, and with each apparition comes that terrible spark of hope. Sometimes she thinks it’s worth it, the searing fire, the bitter ash, to believe for one bright second that her child still walks this earth.

Astor’s Victorian hotel had been sacrificed to progress, and the Empire State Building rises proud from its footprint. The city is old enough, now, to cherish the treasures of its past. Helen glances south at the art deco spire as her cab arrives before the gilded portico of the Waldorf Astoria, and pays her considerable fare. She can’t be sure that Tesla will meet her here at all, but if he’s chosen to remember today’s significance, he’ll be waiting for her in the Towers. Nikola has a propensity for nostalgia, well hidden, and always opts for luxury now that he has means to match the habit; she’s never known the source of his newfound wealth. Helen refuses to ask, though she suspects he would love to tell her.

The lobby is full of people and strangely quiet, conversations muffled by high ceilings and Italian marble. She approaches the concierge, but awareness tickles the back of her neck and she turns, and he’s there, ensconced in a brocade armchair, looking like a Wall Street cat who’s invested well in cream. A very elegant cat, with a penchant for Armani.

“Helen - fancy meeting you here. I trust this trip was less eventful than the last. No icebergs?”

“Not one. Hello, Nikola.” She brushes her lips against his cheek, and his scent is the same as on that day in 1912 - cloves, sandalwood, and something dark beneath. Vampire or human, Nikola Tesla is a dangerous man.

“I’m a bit disappointed. Drama is always preferable to humdrum, and I rather enjoyed riding to your rescue. The opportunity doesn’t often present itself.” A bellman has spirited away her suitcase, with a deferential nod to "Dr. Moreau;" Helen quirks an eyebrow, and Nikola mimes menacing claws. He offers his arm, ushering her towards the bank of elevators.

“The opportunity presents far too often, although I’m not certain even you could manage to threaten me and rescue me at the same time.”

The arm beneath her fingers tightens a little, but he’s smiling as he runs a card through the lock of a door embossed with bronze Grecian maidens. “That was only the once, and you did shoot me. I was desperate. And a vampire.”

“Long since forgiven. Besides, you’ve redeemed yourself many times over. You have been instrumental in saving the world, after all.”

He shrugs, appearing less than delighted with that description of a rogue reformed, and busies himself with uncorking a bottle of Cuvée Femme. The suite is a riot of color and textures, and devoid of books, his arcane machinery. Tesla no longer lives here, of course; she doesn’t know where he’s been keeping himself, and is far too tired to wonder. Opulence overwhelms her travel worn senses, and she’d prefer a shower to champagne; her skin feels gritty, as though she’s been immersed in the sea.

A fire blazes in the hearth, unnecessary in this twenty-first century refuge, but welcome nonetheless. He hands her a crystal flute that captures the light, looking so pleased with himself that she allows him the moment, lifts her glass to meet his.

“To survival, and anniversaries.”

“To present company and absent friends,” he says, and the old pain flickers, bright in his eyes. April marks two anniversaries for him, her rescue and the loss of a friend - John Jacob Astor perished with Titanic. An odd alliance, between eccentric tycoon and vampire genius, but Tesla is steadfast in loyalty once given, within the tangled limits of his serpentine moral code.

Helen sinks into a fireside divan, and into the memories of all they’ve survived, adventures and loss and each other. It’s been six months since Tesla vanished without a word; she suspects he left Old City for the usual reasons - because he’s never had much tolerance for working as part of a team, because he knows she’s mourning. Six months filled with work and travel, but she’s missed him. She’s missed James, lost to mere human frailty, and John, who remains simply...lost.

The next hour is spent in desultory conversation, discussing renovations at Old City Sanctuary, his latest project (“a teleportation device that will set dear Albert to spinning in his grave - at least when the rats stop imploding”), until the bottle is empty and her eyelids droop. Nikola takes heed, rising gracefully from the hearthrug where he’s been reclining, shoes abandoned, narrow feet tucked between her ankles.

“I’m neglecting my duties as savior - let me run you a bath, shall I? I’ve taken the liberty of ordering dinner for two - with a Montrachet that will leave you quite unable to resist my charms - and of reserving a single suite." He drains his glass, places it with studied precision on the mantelpiece. "With two bedrooms. In this century, the cohabitation of scientists is far too tame an occurrence for scandal.”

“It’s a different age.”

“That sounds so...elderly.”

“We _are_ old, Nikola.”

“Pshaw. There’s no such standard. Not for us.”

Helen refrains from telling him that no self-respecting man of this decade would utter the word “pshaw,” or that she has absolutely no intention of resisting his charms or making use of that second bedroom, and follows him into the bath. The back of his neck is slender as a boy’s, familiar as her own face in the mirror - she won’t tell him she doesn’t need saving, and besides, it might not be true.

Persuading him to join her in the vast marble tub proves as easy as unbuttoning her blouse.

“I’m rather fond of this brave new age,” he says, long fingers tracing the small twin scars that have adorned her shoulder for a century. His mark - at least she’s certain he likes to think of it that way. Helen prefers not to, and banishes the thought with a deep, slow kiss.

“Although you, Helen, have always been a woman of bold thought and intrepid action." Wearing a smirk that the century hasn't altered, he tips his head back to the rim of the tub as her mouth descends to his collarbone.

“You mean I’m easy,” she murmurs, smiling against his skin, stretching out beside him in a nimbus of bubbles.

“Oh, no. Never that.”

She isn’t sure if the tremor in his voice is due to what her hands are doing beneath the water, or the words he utters next.

“Helen...I’ve been working on something these past few months, and I feel it’s only fair to warn you-“

“That your efforts have proven successful? I know you’re a vampire again, Nikola.”

He sits up abruptly, pulling her with him as an afterthought and sending a wave of scented water across the travertine tiles. “You’ve been keeping me under surveillance?”

His grip on her arm is uncomfortably tight, but his nails are short and human, his eyes are still blue, and he looks almost pleased at the thought.

“Of course not. You used a key card to open the door - apparently your magnetism has been affected as well - and you smell different. Less like ozone, more like...a good Burgundy.”

“Oh.” He’s searching her face for warnings, for portents, but her fingers find him again and he’s hard, thrusting into her palm. “Just a ‘good’ Burgundy?“

“A St. Julien, then. Château Ausone - the 2003. Spicy, mysterious, requiring decades to achieve its full brilliance-”

“I’ve always been brilliant, surely you meant the 2005, and I don’t require any...more...time.”

He tries to grab her hips but she’s faster, slippery, and she rises up to trap him between her thighs, takes him in, begins a hungry rhythm.

“Help me, Nikola.” Helen knows he’s close, and she needs more. He sits up, grinning, and his teeth seem sharper, not quite fangs, but he holds her at safe distance ( _no, not that, never that_ ), and his fingertips find the place they connect. Slow sweet circles, and it’s not enough, not enough to break free of ghosts and fire and drowning - she lowers her head, defies disaster, and bites hard at his throat where the vein pulses blue.

“ _No_ , I can’t...” But he does, the effort of controlling the vampire and surrendering the man written in his face as he arcs against her, grinds out her name. She kisses him again, and surrenders herself, the only answer she has for the wild question in his eyes.

Their silence after is oddly peaceful, but the water has grown cold. She tongues the mark she's made, his skin unbroken, and wonders what his blood would taste like, what feral power it might hold. Nikola dons a hotel bathrobe and uses the last of the towels to soak up a bathwater lake, sending her naked into the bedroom to open the pile of boxes stacked neatly atop the duvet. Nightclothes, lacy underwear, a deceptively simple black shift paired with Louboutin pumps, pearls - once, after raiding her wine cellar, he’d confessed his undying infatuation with Audrey Hepburn.

Everything the correct size, and he’s remembered the slippers.

Nikola knocks, and steps in as she’s putting on the robe, pale blue silk shot through with silver. The gown beneath is little more than a whisper, transparent as a lithe spring breeze. Helen wonders, not for the first time, if his reputation for celibacy masks a need for secrecy - public life poses problems when its span increases indefinitely, as does hiding one’s age in the bedroom.

“You look lovely. My own selection - the internet is a marvelous thing, and Barney’s delivers.”

“I did manage to arrive with luggage this time. But, thank you - everything is perfect.”

His smile is genuine, if a trifle smug. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you in anything besides Kevlar and the designer version of prim librarian. Not that I don’t harbor a fetish for prim librarians.”

“Nikola...I shouldn’t have provoked you like that. I know that the risk is too great, for both of us.”

“Apparently I still bring out all your worst impulses.” Nikola doesn’t appear to be the least bit sorry, but then the impulse and the need had been hers. Again. The bruise rides stark on his pale skin, an angry scarlet crescent - it seems she lacks his vampiric finesse.

He steps closer, presses his lips to her forehead and traces the curve of her cheek. There’s nothing in his eyes she can read, and Helen hopes that what they share is enough. She can’t afford to lose him to the company of ghosts.

“The plane crashed,” she says, and draws him down to sit on the bed. He’s earned the right to her secrets, some of them, because he’s told her his. Some of them, the ones that hurt. Because this is part of the reason she’s here, dancing with his dark side, and her own. Because she needs to tell it.

“What plane?”

“Someone was smuggling cryptids. Sonoran millipods, usually harmless - in their natural habitat, they subsist mainly on graphite. Our importer was careless with containment, and we discovered a nest at LAX. Apparently the creatures had been there for some time, long enough to adapt their diet to other carbon compounds. Teflon, among others.”

“And they found their way aboard a plane?”

“A commercial flight. They use Teflon for insulating aircraft wiring. We tracked them there too late, and the plane crashed, Nikola. It burned.”

He’s holding her carefully, but his arms are steady, his shoulder beneath her cheek rough with terrycloth, soft with the cadence of his breathing.

“I’m sorry.”

She’s grateful for what he doesn’t say, that it wasn’t her fault, that she’s human, that what she does matters. That she might be using him, just a little, as a bastion against demons far worse than Bhalasaam’s descendant. Something surfaces then, another detail she’s missed, one that could have cost them both dear.

“The serum, Nikola - have you been using it?”

“Of course. Don’t you think you would have heard if I’d been munching my way down Fifth Avenue?”

He’s feigning offense, but the performance lacks conviction. She thinks that he must be tired as well, and making an effort anyway to lead her away from the shadows. Standing, he offers his hand and she takes it.

“Dinner, then,” he says. “That should be safe.”

“Dinner.”

He’s ordered seafood, and the Montrachet is all that he’d promised. A table has magically appeared before the fire, as such things do in the grand hotels, and she asks him if he plans to return to Old City over lobster and Moonstone oysters. It comes as no surprise that he’s elusive, and she thinks that the surveillance he'd mentioned might prove very wise indeed. Nikola is a paradox, his passions as constant and varied as the face of the sea; he’s been both lover and foe throughout their long lives, and those tides may turn again. Helen believes in the value of prudence, a necessary trait in her line of work, and for weathering the storm that is Nikola Tesla.

In bed, he slips his hands beneath blue silk - _“leave it on, leave it on”_ \- and this time it’s lazy, liquid and slow. She lets him take control, because she’s beyond the edge of exhaustion, because she never has before, because the two of them are the sole survivors. Tomorrow, she’ll take it back, put on his black dress and board a plane and become Helen Magnus again. Tonight, the sheets are cool, his eyes are warm, their bed an island above the future's restless waves.

“Meet me in New York in 2112,” he says, nuzzling the back of her neck. “Our second anniversary. The first has been...quite memorable.”

“I might require saving sooner than that.”

“You might.” He curls his body against her back, and she’s drifting, almost lost to the pull of sleep. “But I like having something that’s ours.”

She finds his hand, twines their fingers, holds tight.


End file.
